


These Silent December Nights

by newtedison



Category: The Maze Runner (Movies), The Maze Runner Series - All Media Types, The Maze Runner Series - James Dashner
Genre: Alternate Universe - High School, Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Christmas, Christmas Fluff, Christmas Presents, Fluff, M/M, Presents, Snow
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-12-25
Updated: 2015-12-25
Packaged: 2018-05-09 03:59:12
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,249
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5524565
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/newtedison/pseuds/newtedison
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Almost every night is like this; Thomas knocks at Newt’s window. Newt crawls out--sneaks out--and leaves. They walk down the stranded back roads of suburbia. Streetlamps guide their way through the thick silence, often with neither of them bothering to fill the gap it creates. Silence is more comfortable, sometimes.</p><p>A Christmas one-shot.</p>
            </blockquote>





	These Silent December Nights

**Author's Note:**

> This fic is dedicated to Enna because she is lovely and I thought she would like something like this. Merry Christmas and happy holidays, everyone!

Some nights, in the dark, warm glow of the thick fog through the yellow streetlamps, Newt imagines himself taking one step to the right, one inch closer next to him, to hold his hand.

He imagines how he would do it. Slowly, hesitantly. Like putting on an old glove; familiar, but you need to make sure it fits. That each finger goes where it should. That each crevice matches. It always does, in the end.

He imagines what he would do. He imagines his face, illuminated in the pink glow of the Christmas lights above them, looking down at their hands. He imagines him smiling, as slowly as their fingers lace together, but even softer. Soon the lights would be reflecting him, this boy shines so bright. Even through the fog.

But these nights, these brisk December nights, he keeps quiet. Keeps his hands shoved in his coat pockets, keeps the distance between them respectful, but chummy.

This isn’t unusual, of course. Almost every night is like this; Thomas knocks at Newt’s window. Newt crawls out--sneaks out--and leaves. They walk down the stranded back roads of suburbia. Streetlamps guide their way through the thick silence, often with neither of them bothering to fill the gap it creates. Silence is more comfortable, sometimes.

And that’s okay. Newt appreciates the silence. In a life filled with constant noise -- his home, his school, his own blasted brain -- he can appreciate silence, probably more than most. Thomas, while usually a constant stream of endless dialogue and questions, even manages to stay silent in these times.

The mere presence of him is enough. _Being_ , together, is enough. Note the comma.

So on some nights, like these, these stark silent December nights, where the streetlamps guide them and the fog fills up the silence, Newt’s fingers twitch, slightly, in his pocket.

 

 

Thomas was always terrible at buying presents.

His own mother, who had raised him for 16 years, was even a mystery to him. By now she was long used to boring, picked-at-random necklaces and generic birthday cards. She takes them with an understanding smile, and Thomas tries to bury his shame away for another year.

It’s not that he doesn’t try. He does. A lot.

He just always second-guesses himself. Then, by the time the actual gift-giving day rolls around, he has nothing. He just buys whatever is left.

So when Thomas knew exactly what to get Newt the moment it became December; well, he was a little startled, to say the least.

It wasn’t anything too exciting, or extraordinary. It was just a cheap watch with Captain America’s shield on it.

See? Doesn’t sound too exciting at all.

But to Thomas, see, this was a miracle. He just _knew_. Without question. The moment December rolled around and Christmas popped in his brain, that watch was there, too.

Like magic.

Newt never mentioned it. For all Thomas knew, Newt didn’t even _like_ watches. He didn’t know if he owned any, had ever worn any, had ever mentioned interest in them. Hell, who even needs watches anymore? We all have cell phones now, anyway.

But the thought wouldn’t leave his head. The day after he thought of it, he drove down to the store he originally saw it in and bought it. He wrapped it that day, and it’s been patiently waiting under his bed ever since.

You would think this would be a good thing. Finally, no stress! The gift-buying has been done early! Now, to think about other people, like your mother.

But no. This box -- this tiny, tiny, insignificant, polka-dot covered box, has been calling to Thomas every night. Second-guesses, second-guesses, second-guesses. Oh, how the paranoid mind works.

 _It doesn’t matter_ , he tells himself. _Newt is easy to please. He’ll like anything._

But what if it isn’t good enough? Surely, Newt deserved more than a cheap watch. Who else had been there for Thomas this entire year? Who had stayed up with him, helping him cram for who knows how many tests? Who helped him finish projects, talked to him about his girlfriend problems, helped babysit his little sister?

Newt. It was all Newt, it was always Newt.

Wasn’t it?

Wasn’t it always him?

Him, with the sunny blonde hair and smile that could light up the whole block. He was infectious.

 _No,_ Thomas tells himself. _Not again. Not this_.

He kicks the box further under his bed.

 

 

Do you ever catch yourself staring at someone, and find them looking up to meet your eyes?

Do you ever wonder if they were looking at you the whole time?

Newt wonders this constantly.

It started small. A smile from across the classroom; maybe a friendly way to get through the torture of calculus together.

Then, a sideways glance. A lingering gaze. A small smile when he waved goodbye. His eyes, never staying in front of his for too long, always sneaking around.

Or maybe he was making it all up.

That’s what he always did, right? He looked for the best in people, and then looked for the best, period. His overtly bright optimism crashes down to realistic pessimism mighty quickly, these days. It’s a cycle.

He shakes his head. _Ba, humbug._ It was Christmas! It wasn’t time for these thoughts.

He tightens the bow on the small, red box.

He tries to smile.

 

 

Thomas _loves_ Christmas music.

Not the cheesy, overdone, pop covers of today; no, Thomas loves the _classics_. Frank Sinatra, Nat King Cole, Bing Crosby, Andy Williams. Those songs were the best, and Thomas wasn’t afraid to let everyone know he thought so. Newt, especially.

Because, Thomas learned quickly, Newt hates to sing. Abhorres it, even. He wouldn’t sing along to his favorite song, in the car, by _himself._ Swears on it.

And Thomas...well, he _loooooves_ to sing. And the more he loves the song, the louder he sings it.

So, soon after Newt comes over to help with baking surprise cookies for Thomas’ little sister, Thomas turns up the classics.

It starts with Sleigh Ride. Thomas obnoxiously sings along as he cracks some eggs.

“Just hear those sleigh bells jinglin’, ring-ting-tingling toooooo…”

“Tommy, how many cups of flour?”

“Come on, it’s lovely weather for a sleigh ride together with yooooooou…”

“Tommy, could you answer the question?”

He starts measuring sugar. “Outside the snow is falling and friends are calling-”

“Friends are calling to ask why they didn’t get any bloody cookies this year since a CERTAIN SOMEONE-”

“-FOR A SLEIGH RIDE TOGETHER WITH YOOOOOOOOU.”

“SINCE A CERTAIN SOMEONE WOULDN’T TELL ME-”

“Giddy UP, giddy UP, giddy UP, let’s gooooooo-”

Newt throws the measuring cup onto the counter.

“You know what? Fine. Make the bloody cookies yourself. Have a whole carol, while you’re at it.”

“Oh come on, Newt, I’m just messing with you.”

“Tommy, you know I hate singing. _And_ when you don’t answer my questions.”

“I know,” Thomas smirks. “That’s why I do it.”

The corner of Newt’s mouth twitches -- he’s hiding back a smile. _I’ll wear you down._

He sighs, instead. “Could you at least just answer the question?”

“Do I get to keep singing afterwards?”

“I can’t exactly stop you.”

_You could kiss me. That would stop me real quick._

_Wait no that’s not what I meant-I meant kick me, yeah, just kick me and-_

“So that’s a yes?”

Another sigh. “Yes.”

“Two cups. WE’RE SNUGGLED UP TOGETHER LIKE TWO BIRDS OF A FEATHER WOULD BEEEEEEE…” Back to measuring sugar.

It goes on like this for the next hour. Thomas sings along to everything from Jingle Bell Rock to Frosty the Snowman, Newt begrudgingly working the whole time. Thomas adds some flair, pointing at Newt every now and then with the mixing spoon, or throwing some flour in the air to simulate “snow”, which doesn’t get a very positive reaction -- especially during Let It Snow.

Halfway through baking, Thomas brings out the hats.

“I almost forgot! One for me…” he slips on a bright red Santa hat. “...and one for you.” He takes out a striped green hat and fits it on Newt’s head, moving it around his fluffy, flour-infested hair. “For Santa’s little helper.”

Newt scowls. “I’m not a bloody elf.”

“Yes you are,” Thomas replies, dapping Newt’s nose with one finger, covering it with flour. “And a messy one, at that.” He smirks before turning back to the oven, humming Jingle Bells to himself.

Right when their last batch goes in, Thomas’ phone rings. His mom is calling.

“Hey, I’ll be right back,” he says, running to his room.

When his mom finally finishes with him, he heads back down the hall to the kitchen. Halfway down, he stops. He hears something odd. Murmuring? Chanting?

He inches closer to the kitchen. Some low sort of humming can be heard. He waits right outside the entrance to the kitchen, and listens.

_“Have a holly jolly Christmas, and when you walk down the street…”_

Huh? Was that singing? He peeks his head around. Newt sits at the kitchen table, flipping through his phone, singing quietly to himself.

_“Say hello to friends you know, and everyone you meet.”_

Thomas turns so he’s standing in the door, leaning against the wall. Newt doesn’t notice.

 _“Oh, the mistletoe, hung where you can see. Somebody waits for you, kiss him once for me. Have a holly jolly Christmas, and in case you didn’t hear, oh, by golly have a holly jolly Christmas this year…”_   The song fades out.

“So you do sing.”

Newt practically jumps out of his skin, looking at Thomas with a face a shade of pink Thomas didn’t even know was possible.

“I-I wasn’t...how did you-were you-”

“Yeah, I was listening. How long? End of the song. Sad I missed the rest. This is a once in a lifetime moment!”

“You better believe it is,” Newt almost growled, standing up and snatching the elf hat off of his head. He starts moving towards the door, attempting to walk past Thomas. Thomas catches his arms before he can.

“Come on, Newt, don’t be upset. It’s just singing. We all do it.”

“Well, I don’t.”

“You just were!”

Newt scoffs. “Don’t even know why, really.”

Thomas sighs. “Look, I’m sorry I heard you sing. If it’s any consolation, I think your voice is nice."

A pause. “Really?”

“Yes. Really.”

Newt’s blush grows deeper. “Huh. Well, uh, thanks.”

“No problem.”

There’s a moment of pause, Thomas’ hands still holding onto the crook of Newt’s arms, their bodies snug together in the small space of the wall opening. He takes a moment to look at Newt, really look at him, and notice the details while he can.

His hair, now matted and messy from the elf hat, is also infused with flour. The usually vibrant blonde color has been replaced with a faded gray, almost.

His face is still an embarrassed shade of red, covered with even more flour than his hair. It’s even in his eyelashes. Thomas notices a smudge of chocolate on the corner of his mouth. He considers kissing it off.

But he just lets go of his arms, and the two silently finish the rest of the baking, packing the cookies away.

 

 

Newt was always great at buying Christmas presents.

Despite his lack of enthusiasm for singing, and usually annoyed attitude, Christmas was one of his favorites times of the year.

He loved the layer of thick quiet the clean, white snow casts on his town. Like a quilt, draped lazily over the sky, keeping everyone snug.

He loved the glow of the lights in the night, dangling from garage doors or hanging from store windows. Some nights, when he wasn’t working or with Thomas, he would walk down the local plaza and stand in front of them, squinting and blurring his eyes on purpose, watching the lights simplify into warm orbs of color. He imagines himself melting into them, letting all of his troubles slip away.

Sometimes, when Thomas isn’t looking, Newt will squint his eyes, watch Thomas go blurry. He wonders if, like the Christmas lights, Thomas will still be beautiful when he can hardly be seen.

The answer is always yes.

Newt loves wrapping paper. He loves the crispness of a nicely-wrapped box, or the laughable attempts. From polka-dots to stripes to reindeer, he loves it all. He’d buy it in bulk if he could, wrap his whole house in it.

And, contrary to popular belief, he loves the music. He prefers the classics, but anything will do. As long as there are bells.

Most of all, he loves buying gifts. For as long as Newt can remember, he’s never had trouble coming up with gift ideas. He was known amongst his friends and family for being the most creative and thoughtful out of the bunch. He prided himself on that.

So when December rolled around and he couldn’t think of a single thing to get Thomas; well, it was a little startling, to say the least.

It’s not like Newt didn’t know Thomas well enough. In fact, Newt felt some days that he knew Thomas better than he knew himself.

It was that nothing was _good enough_. Nothing could match the gratitude that Newt felt to Thomas for all of these past years of friendship. For all the bike rides in the cul de sac, the split fries at the diner, the late-night drives to nowhere, to helping him with his obscure art projects. For being there to talk to when the world fell apart. How was Newt supposed to reciprocate that in one gift?

He sits at his desk, crumpled notebook pages surrounding him. Trashed ideas, trashed attempts. Nothing would ever be good enough.

He stands up. He sits down. He taps his foot, he shakes his head. He taps his pen. He stands.

He’s restless.

He goes for a walk to clear his head. A little girl in a puffy red jacket dances on the sidewalk, practicing a routine. Her mother watches with proud eyes. A boy a few years younger than Newt whizzes by on a skateboard. He barely notices Newt, despite almost running him over. Newt laughs.

He fiddles with a string in his coat pocket, turning it over in his gloved fingers. The air is calm, still. The neighborhood silent, his brain a rock concert.

A woman sits in a chair, jingling a bell for the Salvation Army. Her radio plays next to her, softly churning out what sounds like Baby, It’s Cold Outside; it’s hard to tell through the thick static. He stops on the opposite side of the road and listens.

A soft wind picks up, ruffling the exposed hair from under his beanie. He tugs his jacket closer to himself, and wishes that someone could be here to keep him warm.

_But baby, it’s cold outside._

It is cold. Bitterly.

So what could he get the boy that thawed him?

 

 

One time, when they were both 15, they sat on their school’s roof.

It wasn’t very hard to get there; just a hop and a skip around the locked door, and bam! You’re at the roof. Almost no one other than the janitors had seen it.

To say it was interesting up there would be a lie. It was flat, gray, and drab, with unknown stains and hints of leaks. It smelled vaguely of cigarettes.

Like now, it had been December when they went. From the roof, they could see a neighborhood across the road. Distant lights flickered and danced, and a muffled tune could be heard traveling through the thick night sky.

Neither of them said anything. They just sat, legs dangling over the edge, looking out at another cookie-cutter suburbia. Their lives consisted of cookie-cutter suburbias.

They didn’t do anything, either. In theory, nothing significant happened on that night. It was just another night of sneaking around.

Except for one thing. One little, tiny, probably insignificant thing.

Thomas watched as it started to snow. It was light, one step above a flutter. It came down softly, almost playfully, white specks in the black, fluorescently-lit sky. Newt smiled when he saw it.

Thomas watched as Newt looked towards the sky. He watched his eyes flicker around, watching the snowflakes dance in the light breeze. His mouth, curled into the smallest smile, sent shivers running down Thomas’ arms -- or maybe it was the wind.

No, it was his smile. And his laugh, when one of the snowflakes landed on his nose.

That was when it happened.

When he knew.

 

 

So when did Newt know? Oh, he always knew.

He always knew.

 

 

Christmas day is here. Thomas and Newt are meant to exchange later, at a surprise location of Newt’s choosing. Every year, it changes. One year, it was the school gym; again, broken into. Next year, a park at midnight. Then Thomas’ bathroom. Last year, it was a random tree house in someone’s backyard. No one was home.

This year, it’s Newt’s turn to choose. Thomas is looking forward to whatever his brain came up with this time.

He’s hoping it’s better than his bathroom.

He sits on his living room sofa, fiddling with the small box he finally fished out from under his bed. His usual schpeel of second guesses are running through his mind, but he tries to tell himself there’s nothing he can do about it now.

It doesn’t work very well.

Newt finally knocks, and Thomas is confused when he sees Newt holding nothing at the door.

“Merry Christmas.”

“Merry Christmas, Newt. Wow, what a big present you got me. Do you need help carrying it?”

“Oh, hush. You’ll get your gift. We just have to go get it.”

“Okay, where is it?”

“You’ll see.” Newt turns and starts walking without a word. Startled, Thomas shuts the door behind him and follows, gift still in his hand.

They walk in silence for 15 minutes; well, relative silence. Thomas asks a multitude of questions as they go, all answered with silence from Newt. Thomas scoffs, but gives up after a while. He can see why Newt would find that annoying, now.

Eventually, they turn a corner to find themselves on a familiar road. Thomas sees their destination up ahead.

“The school?”

“Yes.”

“Newt, we made a rule about no repeats.”

“Who said we were going to the gym?”

“Well, no one, but-”

“Look, even if it’s the same building, it’s not the same place, alright? Don’t worry.”

They take the easy-to-access back route into the building; that being, a door that doesn’t properly close because it’s broken. They find themselves in the stranded, dimly-lit hallways, almost with complete pitch blackness. The outside streetlamps poorly reflect against the green tiles.

“Newt, I can’t see a thing.”

“Just follow my voice. It’s this way.”

Thomas attempts to catch up to Newt, who calls out every few seconds to Thomas. He trips multiple times on the way there, and almost falls into a locker at one point. Eventually, they meet up with each other.

“You should know the way now,” Newt comments. He gestures to the locked passageway in front of them. It’s the staircase leading to the roof.

“Oh. Okay. I get it now.”

“Care to go first?”

“I’ll give you a lovely demonstration.”

Thomas shimmies around the door with ease, climbing over the locked barricade of the stairs. Newt follows suit, and eventually they make their way to the roof.

Once they make it up there, Thomas immediately starts looking around for something wrapped.

“Alright, where is it? Unless there is no gift, and you’re actually a serial killer who’s gonna throw me off the roof.”

“How did you know?”

“Lucky guess.”

Newt chuckles. “Don’t worry, you’ll get it. But I’m opening first.”

A tinge of anxiety spreads through Thomas’ stomach. He hopes Newt doesn’t notice how his hands shake slightly when he hands over the gift.

Newt slowly unwraps the paper, carefully preserving it without making any tears. The time it takes to open it seems like ten years to Thomas.

Finally, he finishes it, and looks down at the watch with a smile. Regardless, Thomas still feels like he has to explain himself.

“So, I wasn’t really sure if you liked watches, but I saw this in the store one day and it really seemed like something you would like...I mean, I know Spider-Man is your favorite superhero but I know you like Captain America a lot too and I thought, you know, maybe you might like a watch, you know, people wear watches, and-”

“I love it.”

A beat. “You do?”

“Yeah, of course. I’ve been needing a watch, too.” He takes it out of the packaging and slips it on his wrist, tightening the straps. “Fits perfect.”

Thomas tries to disguise a worried sigh. “Great. Awesome. Glad you like it.”

Newt smiles for a moment; it fades a little, and he starts fiddling with his hands.

“What’s the matter?” Thomas asks.

“Well, um...I don’t actually have a gift for you.”

“I knew it. You are gonna throw me off the roof.”

“No no no, not like that! It’s just...it’s not a...physical gift.”

“Okay…”

Newt clears his throat. “It’s um, it’s not wrapped. It’s just a thing.”

“A thing?”

“Yeah. A thing.” His voice suddenly becomes mock-stern. “And you better like it, because you’re never getting it again.”

“I’m never getting it again?”

“Nope. This is a once in a lifetime gift.”

Thomas gives a small laugh. “Okay. I’m ready.”

“Alright. Um...okay, so I’m just gonna…” Newt awkwardly changes his position, standing slightly more upright, and clears his throat. “Okay, um…”

“Oh, come on, Newt, the suspense is killing me.”

“You’ll see in a second, I just need to-”

“Please just tell me, I’m begging you.”

“Just one minute and-”

“Newt oh my god I’m losing my mind-”

_“Have yourself a merry little Christmas…”_

Thomas freezes, his heart skipping a beat.

_“Let your heart be light.”_

Newt looks at the ground as he sings, his hands shoved in his coat pockets. His voice floats softly through the air, as if it, too, was snow.

_“From now on, our troubles will be out of sight…”_

Thomas stands and listens, and indescribable feeling filling his chest, traveling down to the tips of his fingers. There’s a joy, and also an itch. A twitching of his fingers, the jumping of his heart, the rattling of his ribcage.

_“Have yourself a merry little Christmas…”_

Thomas didn’t know a voice could be so soft. It fills the air, it fills everything. Forget Bublé, this is the best thing Thomas has ever heard.

_“Make the Yuletide gay…”_

The lights of the suburban houses shine behind Newt, casting a white and pink glow around his frame. White specks shine through his fluffy hair. He looks like an angel. He sounds like an angel. Is this what all of the Christmas songs mean, when they sing about angels? Thomas can’t imagine anything else, anyone else.

_“From now on, our troubles will be miles away…”_

Thomas can’t feel the cold. He doesn’t know if he’s _ever_ felt cold, or if that was just some sort of make-believe fairy tale. How could you feel cold around something so warm, so glowing?

_“Here we are as in olden days…”_

Newt still hasn’t looked up. He kicks his feet as he sings, keeps his head titled.

Thomas might be warm, but he can’t move. He can’t feel his hands. Just the deep itch inside of him that he can’t push down, don’t know if he ever will.

_“Happy golden days of yore…”_

Golden, golden, golden. He shined brighter than the most priceless jewels. He was worth all the money in the world.

_“Faithful friends who are dear to us…”_

You are so dear to me, he thinks. How can you not see?

_“Gather near to us once more.”_

Newt finally looks up and meets Thomas’ gaze, right before the last verse. Thomas heart flutters; his chest caves, his knees buckle. He melts, he melts, he melts.

And he decides.

And he steps forward, and he stops the song, and _goddamn_ did he love his voice but his lips are even softer, even sweeter, and this, _this_ is the best song he has ever heard. It’s in perfect melody. He was always a fan of harmonies, anyway.

He is holding onto his winter jacket and he is holding, holding, holding on because he’s starting to think that the roof is collapsing. Someone will have to catch him soon and only one person has ever really done that for him.

He hears a muffled song playing from the neighborhood below. He thinks of how clear Newt’s voice was, even through the thick night air.

Newt pulls back, his hand lingering on Thomas’ face. He doesn’t know when it got there, and he doesn’t know when the song started, or when it ended. All instruments have been harmonizing for years. It was a movement.

“Go ahead,” Thomas urges, his voice barely above a whisper. He can see his breath in the make-believe cold, and watches as it fades onto Newt’s lips. “Finish the song.”

“ _Through the years we all will be together, if the fates allow. Hang a shining star upon the highest bough…”_

He manages to lean forward even further, Newt singing against his lips.

_“And have yourself a merry little Christmas now.”_

 

 

Newt’s fingers stop twitching in his coat pocket.

He holds his hand.


End file.
